


Anvil

by Life_giver



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_giver/pseuds/Life_giver
Summary: If Aulë ever caught them at this grievous play, Mairon would be pitched out of Valinor without a second thought, his pretty cheek pressed to the dirty soil of Arda.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 92





	Anvil

The forge warmed his skin as Melkor drifted through the darkened hallways. The light of it flickered against the marble floor and could be felt long before he entered the smith. With a little creativity, he’d lulled the place to sleep so that he was free to wander without prying eyes. He slid one long nail against the wall beside him as he walked, glad for once to be in a solid form he could manipulate. It unnerved his little pupil when he appeared in a form true to his nature, and so he had crafted one that was fair to look upon, a shadow to the light he was so drawn to.

There were other pleasant draws to a solid form, and he smiled as his gaze fell on the Maia he had come for. Mairon was hard at work, hammer striking anvil in perfect time, his slender hands forming art in the form of a curved sword. He had noticed that his attention had shifted to the making of darker things, mechanisms of war, instead of the fine jewels he had once presented Aulë on bent knee. Now he bent for Melkor only, and with such pretty abandon. 

He watched as Mairon wiped the beading sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His hair had been pulled away from his face and he wore the dark robe and apron of a smith, he was truly a work of art himself; beautiful to look at, the jewel of Aulë’s pupils. He had fashioned his body and face as carefully as any metalwork his hands had formed. Mairon glanced over his shoulder as Melkor entered the room, and he set his hammer down on the anvil slowly. 

Melkor’s visits were rare and meticulously planned so that Mairon was always caught off guard. His little Maia wiped his dirty hands on his apron, his gaze hesitant. He was always wary of Melkor’s impromptu visits, no matter the nature of them. He was still a  protégé  of the Valar, still shone with an inner light that burned Melkor when they touched. 

“Melkor,” Mairon whispered. It had taken many visits for the Maia to stop calling him Morgoth after his master’s contempt. 

“Little Maia,” Melkor greeted him, reaching out to touch the hammer he had set down. “A sword?” He raised an eyebrow cynically. “Violent for a being of the light.” 

“A darkness has crept into my heart,” Mairon murmured, eyes glancing up at Melkor with such deference, a heat stirred in this body Melkor had formed. He had made this body to what he saw when he reached inside of Mairon’s mind and sifted through his thoughts. He knew what would stir his interest, what would get him to kneel the quickest. 

Mairon had a perverse fascination with darkness. 

“Has it?” He whispered. 

His eyebrow crept higher as his hand drifted to a soft jaw, and then slipped into Mairon’s hair. This Maia was made of fire; he closed his eyes as warmth licked at the palm of his cold hand and twisted through his entire body. Mairon was a slow blaze that only started with the kindling of Melkor’s hands. His fingers instinctively curled in on themselves, grasping at the long fall of the Maia’s hair. The motion pulled Mairon’s head back, and his throat worked with a swallow as he gazed at Melkor complacently. 

_ Do with me as you will, _ the look said to him. 

When he pulled down, Mairon moved with the sharp jerk, falling to his knees, his eyes tilted to Melkor like the most humble of servants, a faithful devotee at an altar. In the beginning, the Maia had struggled with the act, guilt had still tied him to Aulë and to the other Valar, but in the end, he had understood where his path lay. 

When fingers touched Melkor’s hips, fire burned his skin and he hissed, nearly pulling away, but Mairon kept him still and carefully pulled aside his dark robes, reaching for his cock like a mortal being. The act itself was degrading, beneath them both, and yet, they had come to crave this physical intimacy as if they were indeed beings of the flesh. 

Over the past few months, Melkor had slowly come to understand the raw, animalistic urge that fueled the mortal race, controlled them even. Men rutted with other men, whenever and wherever the urge took them. It was less so with the Eldar; they took their passions too soberly. It was rare to see one kneeling on a forge floor, eager for the act. But then darkness was Mairon’s calling and Melkor used that insatiable lust to bind the Maia to him all the more. 

He held Mairon’s face in his hands, thumbs caressing his jaw, sliding against his full bottom lip until Mairon drew a thumb into his mouth, sucking it for a moment before biting down sharply. Melkor cursed, tilting the Maia’s head back with a rough jerk and pressing his hips forward. 

Together they had learned the darker art of the flesh and Melkor had found himself addicted to these meetings between them, hidden in the shadows of Aulë’s own forge. It excited him that he could corrupt something so pure in the Valar’s home, beneath their very eyes. There was a careful agenda to his visits, but it had also become a game to him. Would he push the Maia too far and risk rebuff? Would his master catch the scent of damp cinder on Mairon’s skin one day and question him? 

He let out a soft sigh as Mairon leaned forward, tongue curling against the head of his cock. His thumbs smeared the soot dirtying Mairon’s high cheekbones as he pulled him forward, pleasure vibrating throughout his entire body. Mairon’s brow creased, choking a little as Melkor pushed against his throat with a sharp thrust. 

To have a being of the light down on his knees, degrading himself, was a pleasure Melkor had never thought possible. Aulë had truly misstepped when he had taken Mairon into his service. His little smith was a being of the flesh now, hungry for something more than the light could offer. 

Melkor pushed forward, sliding deeper and shuddered when Mairon swallowed around him. The bit Mairon couldn’t reach, his slender hands, course from the hammer, wrapped around and stroked. He had become quite skilled and now he worked Melkor with a hunger but he was too careful and sensual with his movements. He became rough with the Maia, wrenching his hair in his fist, pulling at the delicate strands so that he was forced onto his cock. His mouth was so warm and wet, and the pleasure so piercing that a groan worked it’s way from deep within Melkor's throat. There was only the slightest resistance to his depravity; Mairon’s hands pushing against his naked hip bones, a wetness that seeped from the corners of his eyes as he tried to swallow Melkor deeper, flames burning in his gaze as he looked up at Melkor through the manhandling. 

When he couldn’t take anymore, he reached down and pulled at Mairon’s apron, ripping it and his apprentice robes down from his shoulders so that the Maia was left naked on the ground between his boots. There was no shame in the Maia as he was stripped bare, only a pleading in his gaze that made a deep laugh erupt from Melkor. 

“What would Aulë think?” He growled. With one arm he swept the unfinished sword and hammer from the anvil and it clattered to the floor, the sound ringing about the place loudly, and then he grabbed at Mairon’s small form and hitched him up by the waist as if he were a doll. He set him against the cooled anvil, naked and sweating in the heat of this place. 

“He would think me wicked,” Mairon answered him breathlessly. His mouth was wet and reddened from Melkor’s abuse, lips parted prettily. The deep red hair Melkor had mused with his impatient hands stuck to Mairon’s temples and neck and caught in the corner of his mouth. The strands seemed almost alive with fire, even in this solid form that Mairon now wore. His entire body was a flame, bare and white hot against the black anvil, ready for destruction. 

“He would think me an absolute demon,” Mairon whispered, the corner of his mouth tilting just a little, so that Melkor almost missed it as he lounged against the anvil. A sharp pulse went through Melkor’s cock at the sheer rebellion this one was willing to incite in his name. 

“Maybe that’s what you truly are,” Melkor murmured, leaning down and slowly brushing his lips against a straight jawline to a perfectly pointed ear, fashioned after the beauty of the Eldar. He was a perfect mimic of the ideal form, the madness of mortal desire. 

Mairon’s obvious vanity stroked Melkor’s lust even deeper. They complimented one another quite nicely in that aspect. His thumb brushed against Mairon’s chin, over his full lips, admiring his craftsmanship. Mairon could have lived forever as a fire spirit, but he had chosen to walk in a solid form, to feel pain and pleasure, to  _ live _ , and Melkor admired him for that lust. He  _ recognized _ that lust. 

“Maybe that’s who you truly are inside,” He murmured, brushing away a bit of the soot marring the Maia’s beautifully sharp cheeks. He had worked hard to instill a shadow in Mairon’s mind, had driven the darkness down inside of him like a hammer striking an anvil, carefully but with a force undeniable. 

This one was  _ his. _

“Mine alone,” He growled, grabbing at Mairon’s naked thighs and hauling him forward with a sharp jerk. Mairon’s elbows hit stone and he tilted his head back at the crude motion, eyes closing tight. He always kept his eyes closed when they were together, as if that would abdicate him from his sins. As if by not seeing the beast ruining his body, he would be somehow forgiven his betrayal after it was all done. If Aulë ever caught them at this grievous play, Mairon would be pitched out of Valinor without a second thought, his pretty cheek pressed to the dirty soil of Arda. 

Well, it was an inevitable ending for his little Maia, and when it happened, Melkor would be there to pick him up. He had watched him from afar for too long not to know what a perfect servant this one embodied. Mairon did much without prompting, had shown his loyalty by the lewd acts he was willing to perform beneath the roof of his master. There was nothing this fire spirit wouldn’t do with a little prompting. 

“Look at me,” He demanded, and slowly, Mairon’s eyes opened and his gaze settled on Melkor. His eyes were lidded, and a flame burned within depths of burnt umber. He had never before encountered a spirit so engulfed in flames, it was truly exquisite. 

“What do you want from me?” Mairon murmured, bottom lip moistened by his tongue. 

_ I’ll do anything for you.  _

_ “Your soul,”  _ He wanted to growl, but perhaps his Maia already knew this. 

Mairon was intelligent, quick-witted, and utterly capable of refusing him. And yet, he had been nothing but clay beneath Melkor’s hands since the moment they had met by chance in the darkness. Melkor had found a light burning deep within his father’s halls and had reached for it curiously, only to be burned. But with each meeting, that flame grew stronger, until it craved the chill of his hands. It was as if Mairon had been lusting after the freedom Melkor had promised the entire time he’d been beneath Aulë ’s tutelage. This Maia was not meant for cages, he was meant for a throne, and Melkor acknowledged that. 

“I want...only this,” He smiled, leaning forward, tongue sliding against the side of Mairon’s neck. A low sound came from deep within Melkor’s throat at the taste of his sweat. Mairon let out a soft moan, turning his head aside for the assault, fingers still gripping the side of the anvil tightly. His entire body shuddered beneath Melkor as teeth pulled at the skin of his neck. Mairon’s brows were knitted in anticipation and pain. 

His hand slid against Mairon’s throat and wrapped just under his chin as he looked down into a face that was almost too ethereal, too pure for what they were doing. He could easily ruin this perfect form, could snuff the light from Mairon’s chest with a single twist of his hand. He felt Mairon grow harder between them, his cock swelling against his belly at the threat. 

“You aren’t meant for this world,” He hissed, pushing his hips forward, fingers tightening the deeper his cock slid into Mairon’s trembling body. With only sweat to aid them, there was pain, and he watched it creep slowly across the Maia’s face, twisting the perfect features. First his brow knitted, perfectly white teeth clenching, lips drawing away in a grimace, eyes pleading with him, his breath coming fast beneath the crush of Melkor’s hand, trying to draw enough breath to live. But not a sound escaped his mouth and Melkor smiled at the obstinacy. 

_ Cry out for me. _

He felt the body beneath him strung tight like a bow, pulling him inside, even as the face paled beneath his hand, and then the Maia turned his face away, refusing him for the first time. His hand slackened and he turned Mairon’s face back to him by the chin. Sweat slid down his temples, catching in the corner of his mouth as he looked up at Melkor with a determination that he felt like a hand around his own neck. This one was strong no matter his station. There was an iron will, and a deep sense of self-control that Mairon embodied gracefully. He would claw his way out of anything Melkor threw at him, at anything the Valar could bring down upon him. 

He was perfection incarnate. 

The tether that held him back, broke in Melkor then, and he grabbed at Mairon’s hair, pulling him against his chest and kissing him deeply. He felt the trembling of Mairon’s fingers as the Maia grabbed at the back of his neck and kissed him back, his breath ragged and sweet.

Long legs wrapped themselves around Melkor’s waist as he began to fuck him in earnest, pushing deep and hard into the willing body beneath him. Heat surrounded him, pulled him deeper; Mairon was a furnace unto himself. Mairon’s gaze was on his face as his body was rocked lewdly against the anvil, his mouth open in pleasure. 

Melkor felt a hand in the fall of his own hair as Mairon pushed back against his thrusts. There was a boldness to the way Mairon used his grip on Melkor’s fall of dark hair to keep himself upright, and the pain to his scalp was delicious. He grinned wickedly, leaning forward and driving in harder until jagged moans began to fall from Mairon’s lips, his voice bounding off the walls of the forge. It was a delightful thought that any of the guards he’d lulled to sleep could awaken at any moment and find them rutting like animals. The thought of Aulë himself walking in on his precious student splayed out like a common whore with the devil between his legs was too good a vision to release. 

“Master,” Mairon moaned breathlessly, gaze burning into his soul, and it was almost too much. He felt his face being pulled forward and Mairon pressed his forehead against his own and then there was the press of his mouth, cutting Melkor’s bottom lip with the force of a kiss. 

_ I’m yours. _

_ Only yours. _

_ My soul burns for you.  _

It was too much, the tide was too strong for him. Melkor broke away from the kiss, gasping from the heat of it, his hand finding the delicate pale neck again and pushing until they were separated. 

_ Too close.  _

_ Too dangerous. _

Something like fear waited on the edge of pleasure, and he pushed Mairon down by the neck and held him to the cold anvil, where the heat between them was lessened. But still that gaze scalded him, unyielding and for a moment, he almost looked away, shut his ears to the whispered devotions that now slipped from Mairon’s lips like soft prayers to him. He gritted his own teeth, taking his pleasure in the warmth beneath him roughly even as Mairon grabbed his wrist to keep the thread between them burning. 

This one knew how to mold darkness. 

This one was powerful. 

He groaned, shuddering as the heat expanded and then flooded his body in agonizing waves. His fingers clenched against the throat beneath him with a final, desperate thrust. He tilted his head back, letting the ecstasy flood every inch of his body, his hand shaking where it held Mairon down beneath him. The Maia’s skin was slick with sweat against his palm and he could feel the frantic beating of Mairon’s pulse. He stood for a time, catching his breath, hips pressed flush between Mairon’s legs, his body still shuddering with the after-waves of pleasure. 

Something about this coupling had been different, and as he looked down at the corrupted Maia beneath him, he found that he could not entirely demean him. Spoil him for the likes of Aulë’s house, yes, but he could not degrade him in the basest sense. This Maia would not be cheapened. He understood what Melkor had offered him before he knelt and now he would have his due. 

He took his hand away from Mairon’s neck and backed away as the Maia sat up, too graceful and fluid for the violence wrought upon his body. He watched as Mairon wrung the sweat from his hair and then twisted the strands into a heavy rope away from his flushed face the way he did when he was working. Melkor almost knelt and handed him the now soiled robes of Aulë to cover his nakedness. He was so small, child-like,  _ naive _ in the eyes of the Valar. So little did they know about the weapon Melkor had forged in their own home. 

Mairon’s body glistened in the glow of the circle of furnaces still burning around the room, and he made no move to cover himself, dressed only in the fall of his hair. 

“I am a conduit of pleasure for you,” Mairon finally spoke, a soft smile touching his reddened lips. 

Melkor gazed on him curiously but made no move to answer him. His words had been a statement, not a question. When Mairon slid from the anvil he stood but a foot shorter than the form Melkor had taken on, but he was still slight of build. And yet when he tilted his face, there was a fearlessness in his face, and Melkor made no mockery of his sudden nerve. Mairon reached out to him, long, artist fingers brushing the sharp curve of Melkor’s jaw, eyes flitting up to catch him. His slender fingers were too bare for a smith of his precious talents. He wore no jewels. 

Melkor wanted to bathe him in gold. 

“Make me a conduit of your power and I will serve you as I have served no other.” His voice lowered from it’s usual melodic tone, and Melkor felt lust touch him again. 

“An expensive offer,” He murmured, raising an eyebrow as fingers danced over the corner of his mouth curiously.

“I am an expensive ally.” Mairon mirrored his raised eyebrow and the truth of his words leveled the ground they stood on. 

There was no jewel more precious than he in Aulë’s home. Mairon was beloved and trusted by Ilúvatar himself. Melkor realized then the complexity of Mairon’s mind. He had waited for just the right moment to offer up something more valuable than the body he had molded for pleasure. In one final sweep, he had toppled all of Melkor’s minuscule plans for him. 

Melkor looked down between them to the palms of his hands, which had been burned by the very skin he had bruised and perverted. They were black with rot. Mairon smiled, cupping the backs of his hands and cradling them gently. The fires of the forge burned deep within his eyes. 

“Let me be the anvil on which you create a new world.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was once again the result of too much wine.


End file.
